A mist hangs over the bridge, ghosting the town.
This morning I forget how to seize the day,
reinserting ink cartridges slowly five times
until the printer display window reads 100% normal
and the church bells start ringing in Epiphany
marking an end to Christmas festivities.
It’s a national holiday but the supermarkets stay open
so the woman can still choose –
maybe this morning Hungarian maybe later Slovak,
how long she will wait by the shopping trolley bays
depends entirely on how many shoppers forget
to retrieve their 10 cent deposits. I think of her
as I photograph the contents of a rubbish bin:
one snowed over empty champagne bottle,
one spent fire cracker,
as I walk the bridge every day and call it art,
as the printer reassures me everything is 100% normal.